


Aceldama

by tempus_teapot (dreadnot)



Series: Volutions [7]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M, kmeme, volutions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2012-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:30:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadnot/pseuds/tempus_teapot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Anders delivers babies, stands up to his lover, and kills slavers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aceldama

**Author's Note:**

> As with many Volutions stories, this one was in response to a [kmeme prompt](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/8832.html?thread=33125760#t33125760). In this case the prompt was:
>
>> > > While I do enjoy reading stories where Anders is saved (or not) from Templars, I can't help but think that there needs to be more Independent!Anders.
>
>> > > I mean, we are talking about a full-grown mage who passed his Harrowing, escaped the Tower seven times, became a Warden, faked his own death (depending on which story line you pick up in the game) and made his way to Kirkwall and has a shop in Darktown.
>
>> > > Show me an Anders who gets cornered, alone, and is about to either get the shit beat out of him or raped...but he comes out the victor.
>
>> > > Whether anyone witnesses this or not is up to the AA.

Anders had enjoyed Wicked Grace night for years, but in recent weeks, he had been learning to look forward to it to an indecent degree. Every Wicked Grace night, Fenris would escort him to the Hanged Man, sit beside him to win Anders’ coin straight out of his pockets, and then, when the game wrapped up, he would escort Anders back to Hawke’s mansion, see him up to his room, and when the door closed, Fenris would be on the same side of that door as Anders.

What they did behind that closed door made Wicked Grace night Anders’ favorite night of the week.

• • •

It was Wicked Grace night.

Anders finished resetting a longshoreman’s dislocated shoulder and surveyed his empty clinic with satisfaction. All he needed was for Fenris to arrive, and Wicked Grace night could get off to a proper start.

He busied himself cleaning the clinic rather than watching the door for Fenris’ arrival. There were always sheets to fold, old cloth to be torn into bandages, potion vials to scrub, and when he ran out of those things, there were notes to scribble on tattered pages that Hawke gave him – heresies written on the back of pages of Chant of Light doctrine, in the margins of military communiqués, on the blank frontispiece of the Tome of the Slumbering Elders, and scrawled over the diagrams in books of forbidden lore.

His work, his obsessions, the growing press of the need to do _more_ to help both the people of Kirkwall and _his_ people – mages – absorbed most of his life, and Justice approved, but Fenris… Fenris was the one exception, and while Justice did not approve of his growing obsession, Justice did think Fenris was worthy.

Funny what one night of near-inhuman self-restraint could do to boost a Fade spirit’s opinion of a chap. 

Anders broke out his quill and ink and settled in for a serious writing session to mollify Justice and pass the time until Fenris arrived. He wrote out his arguments for mage freedom and lost himself in trying to find the right words to break through centuries of bigotry until a woman’s voice broke his concentration. “Anders?”

He snapped his head up and paused to put a name to the face, not that it was difficult, given the dearth of dwarven women in Kirkwall, but the tall (for a dwarf), broad, swarthy woman was memorable both for her attractiveness and for the circumstances in which Anders had first met her. “Lista?” 

Unfortunately, the bright smile that he had found so charming despite being annoyed and chained to Fenris at the time was missing now, replaced by heavy worry lines while she looked back out of the clinic toward the landing. 

“I told you he’d be here,” said a familiar voice before Varric came into view helping a heavily gravid dwarven woman through the door. “Hey, Blondie.” 

Anders left his desk and hurried to direct them to a cot. “Hello yourself. Care to introduce me to your friend?” And was the baby, perish the thought, Varric’s? Isabela would have a conniption at missing such a juicy bit of gossip for so long. 

The dwarven woman cut Varric off before he could provide an introduction. “The name’s Grevith.” She shook off Varric’s attempts to help her onto the cot and settled onto it with a sigh. Of the three dwarves in the clinic right then, she looked the most composed, although Anders’ trained eye didn’t miss the moment when her expression lost all animation and her attention turned inward. 

He silently counted to eighteen before she let out a long, shaky breath and nodded up at him. “You’re the healer. Varric’s been talking you up all the way over here. Not that he doesn’t talk all the time anyway, but if you’re even half as good as he says you are, you’ll do.” 

“Grev—” Varric began.

She chopped a hand through the air to stop his words. “Man time is over now. I’ll letting the healer keep his dick because I don’t want him wailing and moaning because I tore it off, but you’re dismissed.” 

Anders raised his eyebrows and kept his face otherwise carefully blank, but beside him, Lista snickered. “You heard the lady,” Anders said. “Go get the game started, and I’ll be along if I can.” 

That last he said with real regret, but as much as he loved Wicked Grace night, he couldn’t very well tell this woman he was leaving to go play cards and get laid. He and Frederick were very attached to each other and a forced separation would ruin Wicked Grace nights for him for good. 

Varric raised his hands in surrender. “I know when I’m not wanted.” 

Lista snorted. 

“Send a runner if you need anything,” he told Anders while he shot Lista a reproving look leavened with something Anders thought might be affection. “I’m going somewhere the family assets only get threatened by people I can take in a fight.” 

Anders knelt in front of Grevith and shook his head at Varric. “Don’t let Aveline hear you say that.” 

It turned out that Grevith was one of Varric’s cousins and the only reason she was seeing a human healer instead of her dwarven midwife was that the midwife was currently suffering from a pox that was miserable for adults but potentially fatal for infants. Grevith had no difficulty telling Anders that the last thing she wanted was some human with his ridiculously big hands rummaging around in her crotch. 

“I’d have had the pebble at home with just Lista to help me, but…” For the first time, her stoic façade cracked and Anders saw a hint of past grief in her eyes.

Lista filled in the gap in a soft voice. “She lost her son and nearly died along with him. There was so much…” 

“Blood,” Grevith said harshly. “I nearly bled out, but this time’s going to be different.” She couldn’t hide her need for him to tell her everything would be different when she said, “Won’t it?” 

Anders took her hand and squeezed. “It will. I’ll take good care of you and your pebble. I swear it.”

• • •

Despite her words to Varric earlier, Grevith had in fact threatened to shove his family jewels down his throat during a particularly hard contraction and he had retreated to his writing table to avoid seeing her follow through on the threat. He had been threatened before by people in pain, but Grevith had made the threat with such conviction that he had decided that discretion was both the better part of valor and the better part of having a future sex life. 

It wasn’t as though he was there for anything other than catching the baby and ensuring that he was there as an emergency fallback anyway. Women had been successfully bringing new life into the world without men’s post-coital intervention since the Maker had created everything on this side of the Veil. 

He gave Grevith and Lista some space and settled in to pick up the thread of his argument that Andraste would never have condoned the imprisonment of mages. He was warming up, and when he remembered talking to Dal about Andraste’s feelings about the modern treatment of mages, he knew that he’d found his hook.

“Anders.” 

Anders startled when Fenris’ hand settled on his shoulder, his hand jerked, sending ink spattering off his pen’s nib across the paper. 

“What did I tell you about doing that?” he snapped to cover the fact that Fenris had nearly scared the piss out of him. 

“Not to,” Fenris said, “Which means you must answer me when I call your name.” 

“I didn’t hear you,” Anders said less heatedly, because Fenris was right there and now that they’d broken down the physical barriers between them, proximity was distracting in all the best ways. Except that he wanted to touch Fenris, and with anyone else present that just wasn’t allowed, even if obviously Fenris felt free to touch _him._ He looked past Fenris instead, watching Lista walking with Grevith around the clinic’s outer wall. Anything to try to think of something other than Fenris’ hands on him. 

Fenris turned to follow his gaze and Anders said, “Look, I’m…” 

“You’re going to have a late night. I’ll stay,” Fenris said, looking away from the dwarves to Anders. 

Anders thought of Grevith’s strong desire not to have anyone with a penis anywhere near her and shook his head. “No. Go on. Go have fun. Win some money from someone other than me for a change. I’ll come if I can, and if I can’t I’ll just spend the night here.” 

Fenris’ expression shifted from relaxed but alert to a scowl almost instantly. “You shouldn’t be here alone. What if—”

Anders frowned back at him. Part of him wanted to let Fenris go on guarding his body indefinitely – it meant having Fenris near, being able to sneak touches, being able to watch him and compare his public face to the occasional glimpses of his private feelings that Fenris was beginning to allow him, and more than anything, Fenris helped fend off the fear that rode Anders’ shoulders like a hungry raptor ever since his time as Danarius’ prisoner. 

He didn’t need Justice to tell him that relying on others to protect him did nothing but weaken him. Part of him thought that he was fine with being weak, but another part of him – and not just the Justice part – knew that if he went that route he might as well just put the slave collar on his own neck.

“What if a certain Tevinter mage finds you while you’re walking alone up to the Hanged Man? What if you’re attacked by slavers in Lowtown? What if blood mages attack you?” He caught his voice rising and saw Lista glance their way. He forced himself to finish in a low hiss, “I can’t let you be my nursemaid forever. I’m staying and when I can I’ll either meet you at the Hanged Man or I’ll go to Hawke’s.”

He added the last about going to Hawke’s out of sheer bravado and saw Fenris’ brows knit into angry knots. “All the way to Hightown alone at night—”

Anders hissed in annoyance and turned on his heel, stalking to his bedroom door and throwing it open. By this time Grevith and Lista were both watching the two of the argue. “I’m just going to talk to my friend in here for a minute. Don’t hesitate to knock if anything changes.” 

He didn’t wait for Fenris to follow him, only stalked into his room and poured water into the wash basin on its stand in the corner. He heard Fenris push the door closed moments before he dipped his cupped palms into the water and leaned down to scrub his face. He was washing away the urge to give in and let Fenris have what he wanted, washing away his own fear at the thought of being left alone all night and his regret that this was his favorite night of the week and he was ruining it. 

Ruining it by standing up for himself, which was what a full-grown mage and Grey Warden (former) _did_ if he wanted to look himself in the eye the next time he looked in a mirror. 

He straightened and turned to see Fenris with his back against the door watching him, his expression inscrutable as it only got when he was protecting himself. 

“Fenris…” He stopped, finding his tone too pleading for the decision he had just made. He straightened his shoulders and started again. “Thank you.” 

Fenris’ eyebrows shot up. 

“Thank you,” Anders said, “For everything you’ve done.” He took a step toward Fenris and tried a tight smile. “Thank you for rescuing me, for watching over me, for…” He shrugged and could not find words to describe what they were becoming to each other. “…for not hating me.” 

Fenris drew in a breath to speak, but Anders held up a hand to forestall his response. “And tomorrow I hope you’ll come get me at Hawke’s if you aren’t already there, but you wouldn’t thank me if I treated you like you were helpless.” 

Fenris glowered at him before the glower collapsed, showing the concern behind it. “I am trying to protect you.” 

Anders closed the distance between them and paused in front of him before brushing a light kiss against his lips. That had been allowed even before the ocean voyage that had brought them to this surprising point of intimacy. “Thank you for that, but trust me when I tell you that I actually can take care of myself, despite all recent poisonings to the contrary.” 

Fenris was very still, absorbing Anders’ words before he caught Anders by the arms and pulled him into a deep kiss, too hard to the point that Anders lips were near-crushed against his teeth, but Anders could feel something behind the kiss that made him lean into it, close his eyes, and brace his hands on Fenris’ hips. 

When Fenris released him, they were both short of breath, but some impending storm had passed them by rather than breaking over them. Fenris pressed his forehead against Anders’ and said, “Don’t make me regret leaving here without you.” 

Anders gave him a last light kiss and straightened, offering the only honest response he could. “I’ll do my best.”

• • •

Anders missed Wicked Grace night entirely. 

Grevith’s little boy didn’t make them wait all night before arriving, squalling, bloody, and as pissed off at the world as his mother, but Grevith… 

Maker, there had been so much blood so quickly that he knew without a shred of doubt that she would have died if he hadn’t been there the moment the hemorrhaging started. A midwife could have delivered the baby, but it took a mage to repair the damage nature had cruelly done to her body. 

Lista held the boy while Anders tended to his mother, but it was the darkest pre-dawn hour before Anders felt sure enough of Grevith’s recovery to take the baby and send Lista to wake a runner whose squat was near the clinic. The runner fetched one of Anders’ assistants to watch over mother and child while Lista napped on one of the empty clinic cots. Anders left his clinic feeling tired but happy. As a healer, some of the worst times were when he lost a mother or child – or both – on his watch. Tonight, or rather this morning, he could fall into his bed and know that his nightmares wouldn’t include a tragic failure, and who knew, maybe Grevith would find it in her heart to say a kind word the next time someone slandered mages in her presence. 

Right, that might be hoping for too much, but he smiled to himself as he navigated the circuitous route that would take him out of Darktown closest to Hightown. 

He was as alert as his fatigue allowed, but he was protected more by the loyalty of Darktown’s residents, who knew who they had to thank for a loved one’s life, a companion’s mobility, or their own health. 

In Lowtown he moved quickly, keeping to the shadows, startling once when he disturbed a rat the size of a cat snacking on something he chose not to scrutinize too closely. By the time he finished climbing the stairs to Hightown, Fenris could have been waiting naked in his bed holding a rose in his teeth, oiled body glistening in candlelight and ready to glow, and Anders would just have collapsed into bed beside him and said, “Later.” 

Although, and he laughed silently to himself at the thought, he might have accepted a good night handjob. 

He was still smiling faintly at the absurdity when the net fell over his head. 

For a moment his mind had no way to catch up to the sudden change. He tried to bat at the netting with his hand as though he had walked into a particularly heavy cobweb and found the weight on the net was too much, but by the time the slavers – _don’t damage the meat’s pretty face_ – slid out of the shadows he already had fire in his hands that burned white-hot and disintegrated the rope netting like a sand castle in a gale wind. 

He burned away the lower half of the net with its weights and jerked off the top that clung to him like a makeshift bridal veil in time to catch sight of movement at his left flank. He raised his arm and took the cosh on his bicep instead of the side of the head as the slaver had obviously intended. Pain blossomed like ink dropped in water, spreading out from the point of impact, driving a grunt from him in response that slowed his next spell only for long enough to draw in a breath, then the slaver was hurtling backward, bent around the stone fist that had struck him squarely in the center of his body. 

But there were more slavers, because these kinds of cowards didn’t fight one on one, no, they came with overwhelming force to steal people off the streets, out of their lives, to treat them like meat, to force them into roles that even with kind masters could be nothing more than injustices wrought on the undeserving. 

He felt Justice roiling in his mind, under his skin, behind his eyes, and despite the five to one odds, he smiled, because these men were outnumbered and didn’t even know it. He picked out the leader of the group, the man calling orders and pointed a finger at him. _You. I might let the others live, but I will kill you._

The other four slavers had converged on him while the leader watched, smiling because he didn’t know that Anders had just signed his death warrant. After all, they were all around him, coshes ready to beat him into unconsciousness before they slapped him in chains and took him away, what did they have to fear?

It was one of the earliest spells any mage learned, good for defense without too much injury, and Anders used it now, turning his hatred and revulsion and deep-seated anger into a blast wave that blew out with him at the center, striking the slavers and sending them reeling back, stunned. One man fell to his knees, nose and ears bleeding from the force of it. 

The leader’s eyes widened and he turned to run but Anders caught him with a spell that was a kissing cousin to the mind blast, but so much crueler. The cage that wrapped the slaver leader bound him in bars of magical force that started out as a relentless hold and only drew tighter by the moment until skin cracked and tore under their crushing grip. 

Anders turned his attention back to the other slavers knowing both that their leader was out of action for the moment and that they would soon be coming out of the daze the blast had caused. 

He drove the knife he kept on his belt into the ear of the one who had fallen to his knees and flung out a biting arc of ice to hold the other three in place. He wasn’t sorry to kill the man any more than he was sorry that he was going to kill the rest of them – the healer was not in residence; these men were facing the Grey Warden, because whether he wore the uniform or went to the parties, some things were for life. 

The one he had struck with the fist of stone had finally found his breath and had scrambled to his feet to run, but Anders froze him in place with a targeted burst of ice. One man was down, five were immobilized, and Anders shook his head, raised his arms to the heavens, and opened himself to the elements. He eschewed ice now for fire, reaching for it, calling to it, coaxing it and finally _demanding_ that the rain would come and wash away the filth. He could feel the sky open above him on a place that was nowhere in this world – a place of molten rock and fire, and it began to rain fire and fury down on this piece of Kirkwall. 

Anders watched until every last man was dead except the leader, who hung in the biting cage, bleeding and wild-eyed while boulders pummeled the streets around them. The force cage had given out once, dropping him to the ground, but Anders had renewed it before he had been able to leave the firestorm. 

He could feel the firestorm abating, leaving him feeling drained but not empty. He picked his way through the storm to the spot where the leader hung and looked up at him. 

He wished, oh how he _wished,_ that he believed that if he turned this man over to Aveline, he would see justice in Kirkwall’s courts, but he didn’t believe it for a moment. Slavers had too much money and too many connections, and this bastard would walk free and find someone to prey upon who couldn’t defend himself. 

He was tired and he was drained and suddenly he didn’t want to kill this man with his magic, as though that would sully it somehow. He picked up the sword the slaver leader had dropped when Anders’ spell had caught him and drove it up under the man’s ribs, pushing past the resistance of muscle and sinew until he found his target’s heart. 

He let sword and body fall and faltered as the firestorm gave out around him leaving him in silence so sudden and complete he thought he had gone deaf until he realized he could still hear himself panting. 

He took a deep breath and said sadly and only for himself, “I’ll show you why mages are feared.” 

“I already knew,” Fenris answered behind him, making Anders jump and spin, staff already pointed and ready to throw a bolt of fire. 

He pulled back the energy, feeling a pang like trying to hold off an orgasm at the last possible moment and stared speechlessly at Fenris. 

Fenris picked his way through the bodies, fastidiously avoiding what little blood there was until he was face-to-face with Anders. 

“You followed me!” Anders said when he finally found his tongue again. “You liar!” 

“I didn’t lie,” Fenris said. 

“Yes you did!” Anders fumbled for how Fenris had lied, but came up short. “Okay, so you didn’t lie, but you were following me!” 

“I was.” 

“Why?” 

Fenris surveyed the strew of bodies around them and raised his eyebrows, almost, _almost_ smiling down at them. “Because I thought you needed protecting, but…” 

Anders couldn’t decide if he was furious or falling in love. “But what?” 

Fenris shrugged. “But I was wrong.” He raised his eyes from the bodies and held out a hand in the direction of Hawke’s mansion. “Shall we go?” 

Anders decided maybe he wasn’t furious after all. 

“Yes.”


End file.
